


The Tempest

by hardboiledbaby



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/pseuds/hardboiledbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Holmes had come back from the dead, things could return to how they were before, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tempest

**Author's Note:**

> A very late response to the LiveJournal watsons_woes April "Stormy Weather" prompt.
> 
> Beta'd by Quoshara, whose generosity knows no bounds ♥ ♥ ♥ All remaining glitches belong to the muse, who can't ever leave well enough alone.

“Damn this storm,” Watson said in a low mutter. 

The whole of London was blanketed in a dark and dismal pall. It was weather better suited to the bleakest days of winter rather than a temperate fall, but the equinoctial winds were indifferent to our expectations. All day and all evening, the gusts had battered the city. In our flat, the glass panes trembled and rattled, and the thick sheets of rain falling from heavy clouds obscured what little might be seen beyond them. From where I sat working on my commonplace book, I watched as Watson pulled his dressing gown closer around himself, although the room was warm enough. He stared out the window, his mood as foul and his expression as dark as the tempest that beat against the pane. 

In truth, since we returned to sharing rooms at Baker Street, he was often morose and distant. This was a John Watson I did not recognise, a disquieting departure from the genial bonhomie I had been used to. Even more disquieting was his unwillingness to discuss the cause of his ill temper. I was, of course, hardly in a position to point an accusatory finger at his churlishness, the pot being considerably blacker than the kettle in this regard. I suppose his changed disposition was understandable, and might even have been expected: the good doctor had endured enough tragedy over the past three years to break the fortitude of even the most stalwart of men. 

However, the source of his grim mood tonight, at least, was readily apparent to me.

“Yes, Openshaw’s death was a senseless tragedy,” I said aloud.

He turned to look at me, his eyes wide. 

“How did you—” He stopped and sighed. “Why your ability to read my thoughts surprises me, after all the years I’ve known you, I cannot fathom. Then again,” he continued with a slightly enigmatic twist to his lips, “your very presence these past few months, raised from the cauldron of the Reichenbach Falls, has yet to lose its novelty.”

With a sigh, he returned his gaze to the window and the storm without. “Seven years. It does not seem possible that so much time has passed since John Openshaw stood in these very rooms. I remember the young man so clearly.”

“No doubt it is because you recorded the case in _The Strand_ only three years ago,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he replied, although his tone indicated he thought otherwise. “At the time, it was very important to me to recall the particulars in as much detail as I could. I felt I owed Openshaw that much, at least.” 

“I confess I thought it odd that you chose to include that particular tale in your chronicles. It was… not one of my more successful cases,” I said.

His eyes shifted in my direction. “No, it was not. It was a singular one, however.” He moved to his arm chair and lit a cigarette. The familiar tobacco scent was comforting, but the smoke hid his expression from my view. 

“I suppose that is true,” I said with a shrug. “We do not often cross paths with the Ku Klux Klan on this side of the Atlantic. It would have been more singular indeed, had we been able to lay hands on James Calhoun and his accomplices. It is a shame Openshaw was careless.”

“Oh, come now,” he said, nettled, “you cannot possibly blame the poor soul for his own death!”

“Blame him? Hardly. But I warned him, did I not? I made it quite clear that the threat to his life was real and imminent, and urged him to take every care.”

“Yes, you did. Even so, I would imagine that his death weighs heavily upon you, regardless.”

“Should it, still?” I queried, at something of a loss at his assertion. While I am not the uncaring automaton he makes of me in his stories, neither am I given to pointless regrets. “It was not I who pushed him into the Thames.”

“Of course not. But surely in hindsight, you will agree that something more should have been done,” he cried. He jumped up and flung his cigarette into the fireplace, quite upset. In fact, excessively so. 

“What would you have done, pray tell?” 

He lost all patience, and with it, any semblance of dispassionate discussion. “What would _I_ have done? Well, instead of sending him off on his merry way, alone and unguarded, I would certainly have gone with him and protected him. I knew that his enemies were dangerous and ruthless men, for you had made that very clear. I knew that they were desperate and cunning and would stop at nothing to destroy the object of their hatred, the man responsible for their downfall. I knew, I was forewarned—”

His agitation was rising, and with it, my unease. I arose and crossed the room to where he was standing. “Watson—” I said, but to no avail; he ignored me and continued his tirade.

“—and yet, I lost focus at the critical moment and allowed myself to be distracted by the flimsiest of deceptions, allowed myself to be stupidly drawn away from the man I had sworn to protect, with my own life if necessary, fooled like some gamboling pup into abandoning my post.” Grief and self-loathing rose up like a wave; a force of nature, relentless and implacable. “I abandoned you.”

“No! My dear fellow—” Thoroughly alarmed, I tried again to stem the tide, but he would not be dissuaded. 

“‘She could hardly live a few hours, but it would be a great consolation to her to see an English doctor.’ What puerile rubbish! It was so bloody obvious, the most transparent ruse, and I was completely taken in. I even saw the figure of a man hurrying in your direction, and instead of sensing the trap, I dismissed his presence as inconsequential. At the most critical time in your life, I was useless.” 

I grabbed him by the upper arms and shook hard. “Stop this nonsense at once,” I said. “You were most certainly not useless. You did not see the truth because I hid it from you, because I needed you to believe the lie. I needed you to be out of harm’s way.”

“Yes, so you have already said. You must pardon my lack of gratitude for your chivalry,” he said in a biting tone. He pulled himself out of my grasp and turned towards the door, but I would not let him pass. 

“I do not expect your gratitude, nor do I deserve it,” I said. “You have every right to be angry.” 

If I thought my _mea culpa_ would soothe his outrage, I was quite mistaken.

“Yes, I do.” His voice hardened. “I categorically refused to leave you, as you will recall. Can you imagine how I felt when I realised I had been tricked by Moriarty into doing the very thing I was dead set against? And that you knew, and allowed it?”

I prided myself on having a very good imagination. Watson’s anguish and shame became my own, burning and twisting inside me.

“Why was I even there on the Continent,” he continued, “if not to assist you? Why did you have me accompany you in the first place?”

“I—” Suddenly our positions were reversed, and I was the one in treacherous waters. 

My hesitation was my undoing. Watson narrowed his eyes. “Why, Holmes?”

Rallying, I said, “I desired your company. I said as much at the time, if I recall correctly. It was unconscionably selfish of me to expose you to such peril, but in my hubris I ignored the possibility that the snare I had laid for Moriarty and his gang might fail, and the repercussions—” 

“No.” Watson shook his head decisively. “That explanation will no longer suffice. You would never have undertaken such a daring enterprise without considering every conceivable outcome, and you cannot convince me otherwise. You knew better than to underestimate the man you called the most dangerous and capable criminal in Europe. For God’s sake, you put your affairs in order before you left London!”

“That was merely a precaution—”

“And that is precisely my point! You were clearly aware of the risks. So again I ask, why did you take me with you? And do not repeat that fiction about the pleasure of my company.”

“It was not fiction,” I said, wounded but determined not to reveal how deeply. “I did desire your companionship, as I still do. As I always have. I am not in the habit of lying to you.”

Watson barked out a harsh, unamused laugh. “No? I suppose that would depend on how one defines ‘lying.’ A lie of omission, then.”

“Please, there is no need to revisit my faults, which we can both agree are legion.” Once again, my attempt at self-disparagement fell flat. The desperation edging my brittle words was clear and unmistakable.

“Enough!” He struck the window frame with a force nearly equal to the furor raging on the other side. “What else have you omitted, Holmes?”

I felt the blow as though he had struck me, its vibrations reverberating through my body, insistent and demanding, brooking no further resistance, no further denial.

“Nothing! When I said I desired your company, that is exactly what I meant. Your companionship in my work, your presence in my life, your unwavering and undivided loyalty—I keenly felt the loss of these things when you married. Where I once had you in abundance, I was now deprived, in want. So yes, this was a chance to have you exclusively at my side again, and I found I could not let the opportunity pass, despite the dangers.” I shut my eyes and heard myself say, “I omitted nothing. I was, I fear, rather obvious.”

For long moments, there were only the sounds of the crackling fire and the wind-driven rain. Then a short, rueful snort drew my eyes open.

“You forget yourself, Holmes. ‘Obvious’ to you is a complete mystery to the rest of us mortals.” Watson was not smiling, but his anger appeared to have dissipated, replaced by bafflement and... something else, some emotion I could not identify. “I had no idea you felt this way. You never said a word.”

“It was not something I cared to admit to myself, much less to anyone else. Especially not to you.”

“But good heavens, man, it wasn’t as though we had cut all ties. I was still interested in your work. I always came when you sent for me, as soon as I could arrange matters. There was never any question of my refusing to participate in your cases. Mary understood and never begrudged the time I spent with you. Why—?”

Why? How could I possibly explain that I wanted the whole of him? Or as close to the whole as I could have. 

From the early days of our acquaintance, Watson chose to court the feminine sex rather than pursue illicit pleasures with the masculine, although I had long ago deduced that he had experience of both and even preferred the latter. My own inversion I kept well hidden behind a façade of clinical detachment; a façade bolstered, as fate would have it, by Watson’s portrayal of my unfeeling persona in his stories. It was an exaggeration for literary effect, but one I had encouraged. Better that everyone, and Watson in particular, thought of me as disdainful of the softer passions, lest they suspect I was tortured by them. 

In this manner, we had forged a life together. We were partners in all but the carnal: this, while less than satisfactory on several levels, had been sufficient. Cherished, even. 

But then he plighted his troth to Mary Morstan, pledged to her those parts of him that were beyond my reach: his love, his ardor, his fidelity. And that was beyond unbearable. I was unable to sever the relationship completely, as my addiction to the man was stronger than any drug that ever flowed through my veins; and indeed, Watson would not have countenanced such a break in our friendship. However, for the sake of my sanity I had put as much distance as I could between us, for as long as I could stand it. Until the threat of Moriarty, until the possibility of meeting my match loomed large and real, and I could not stand it any longer. 

“I am a conceited sort of fellow,” I said finally. Another lie of omission, if truer than most. 

“No,” he said slowly, more to himself than to me. While I had been pondering on how to answer him, he had apparently been doing some thinking of his own. His eyes were distant, focussed somewhere beyond this place and this time. 

“No?” I asked dryly, though only half in jest. His intense concentration was slightly unnerving. It was as if—

“Eh?” He blinked, then looked at me in the here and now. He let out a slight huff. “Well, yes. You _are_ a conceited fellow. However…” He stepped in closer and examined my face, studied my expression, as though seeing it for the first time. I felt my breath catch.

“I think… I am finally observing that which I have seen, and deducing that which I have observed.” He reached out a hand, slowly but deliberately. I stood, mesmerized, as his fingertips came to rest lightly on my dressing gown, directly over my heart. For several moments, we were frozen in this strange tableau. 

“Oh, Holmes.” There was wonder in his voice, and no small amount of contrition. “How long?”

“I… cannot recall,” I stammered. Indeed, I could not. How long _had_ my heart been his? When had I relinquished it? Was it when he so readily agreed to accompany me to Lauriston Gardens, our first case together? Or was it in the early weeks of our joint residency here at Baker Street, when I realised he enjoyed a mystery and so I endeavored to make myself as intriguing and enigmatic as possible? No, it was earlier; perhaps the moment I first laid eyes on the invalided soldier Stamford brought to the laboratory at Bart’s, improbable though that may seem. I no longer remembered a time when I had not been madly in love with him, and when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. 

“I see,” he murmured, and his sympathetic gaze made it clear that he understood what I had left unsaid. “Forgive me, my dear boy, for being unforgivably obtuse. My own epiphany was a far more recent event; precipitated, ironically enough, by your apparent death. After I lost you, _I_ was utterly lost, inconsolable, for a very long time.” His hand settled more firmly against my chest, the contact a tangible assurance that I was not a ghost. “I did not consider my grief unnatural, mind. It was natural that I felt bereft, I thought, considering our long and intimate acquaintance, and the guilt I carried for having failed you. And then Mary…. It was after Mary had gone, God rest her soul, and I mourned for you both, when I began to comprehend that the depth and breadth of what I had felt for you was far beyond mere friendship.”

My heart thudded painfully and I looked away. Whilst I had been abroad, Mycroft kept me apprised of Watson’s situation as best he could through our sporadic correspondence. When word of his wife’s passing reached me, I felt the weight of his sorrow from afar, but the realisation that his pain had been magnified by my deception—

Watson touched my face, drawing my gaze back to him. “You did not know,” he said. “How could you? I had not known.”

I pressed my hand to his, marveling at the feel of his warm fingers against my cheek, solid and real. He smiled, and I marveled also at his capacity for empathy and forgiveness. 

“When you returned,” he continued, “I was overjoyed. For the obvious reasons, of course, but also because you wished to share rooms with me again. All would be well, all would be as they once were. I thought that was what I wanted.” 

“But a door once opened is hard to shut,” I said, speaking from bitter experience. He nodded.

“God, yes, deucedly hard. I found myself growing more and more dissatisfied with how things were between us, yet I was unable to see my way clear on how to change them.” He shook his head again, but his eyes were twinkling now. “You have often said that it is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the facts, but an argument can be made for taking too long to theorize, I think, and you are as equally at fault as I am. The truth was right in front of us, all along.”

My mouth went dry as he moved his hand to cup around the back of my neck, the other wrapping around my waist.

“You will excuse me if I dispense with… formalities,” he said, his voice dropping low. “Now that I have applied your methods and reached the correct inference, I find I am eager to be getting on with things. We have wasted altogether too much time.”

An impartial observer, had there been one, might have been hard-pressed to say which of us closed those final few inches between us, whose lips sought out the other’s, whose arms demanded surrender, and won. As there was no such observer, I shall simply say that while Watson is arguably more experienced in these matters, I too have... traveled to several continents. In any case, this was a joint victory; the outcome, a partnership full and equitable in all things.

The tempest continued to rage outside, violent and unabated, but in the haven of our flat we were warm and dry, safe in each other’s embrace. Home, at last.

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: Now with a brief companion piece: [The Second Miracle](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7554088)


End file.
